The Champion's hand tightened around the Verdant Mortar's pestle, and the tool flared bright green—not fire-light or sun-light, but the luminous green of spring leaves backlit by dawn.
A sound left the crowd—a unified exhale full of shock and awe and something like religious recognition.
The green light pulsed once, twice, and Marron felt it resonate with her chest, not her hands. With her core, not her skill. With something fundamental about who she was rather than what she could do.
Tool Recognizes Toolbearer, Not Owner
The knowledge came from nowhere and everywhere, written in sensation rather than words.
"It chose you," someone whispered from the watching terraces.
The Champion shook her head slowly, her green eyes never leaving Marron's face. "No."
She paused, let the moment stretch, let every watcher understand the distinction.
"It recognized her."
The difference was apparently significant. Whispers rippled through the audience again, excited and awed.
